


Thaur

by splix



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 06:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5036704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/pseuds/splix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And the Ring that he held seemed to him exceedingly fair to look on....</i>
</p>
<p>---J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thaur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vablatsky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vablatsky/gifts).



Not all obstacles were stone and steel; some were made of flesh and blood. They lived, and breathed, and called themselves friend. At the end of all things, though, they were little different from bars and gates and high walls, made for breaching and conquest, and destruction, too, if necessary.

Inasmuch as that was true, no one could say that Boromir, son of Denethor, lacked mercy. The Halfling's death had been quick and as painless as he had been able to make it. A broken neck was far easier to explain than a throat slit from ear to ear. The slopes of Amon Hen were steep in parts, and slippery. Hobbits were suited to evenings beside a fire, a savory delectable in one hand, an ale in the other; they were not suited to adventure and the myriad perils of middle-Earth's wilderness.

He sighed, gazing down at the Halfling's broken form. "You should have given it freely, little one. I would have dealt with you mercifully." Even as he spoke, a fine needle of regret pierced his heart, but the Ring glowed hot withal, and he was comforted by its weight and heat and the whispered voice that sang its song inside him. Lifting Frodo's slight body, he bore him to the roots of a once-great tree and concealed him within, pushing leaves and branches around him until such time as he could be retrieved. A proper burial would have been the respectful thing to do, the kingly thing to do, but time was short, and needs must.

"Boromir!"

Coolly, Boromir stepped away from the makeshift grave and started down the hill toward Aragorn's voice. As Aragorn stepped into view, his sword aloft, Boromir rested his hand on the hilt of his own weapon. Here was another obstacle, far more formidable than a Hobbit. And Aragorn knew…something. He watched Boromir's every move, suspicion – yes, surely it was suspicion – kindling in his sea-blue eyes.

"What troubles you, Aragorn? Have the Orcs come at last?" Let them come: Boromir would destroy them serenely, single-handedly.

Aragorn's eyes blazed. "Where is Frodo?"

_Dead, my lord. Dead and beginning to decay._ The Ring imparted such wondrous gifts. Boromir fancied that he could hear the insects of the wood shifting, beginning their slow and deliberate march toward the Halfling's corpse. Soon they would begin to consume him. A strange glee bubbled up inside, an impulse to prolong matters. "Frodo? Is he not with the others?"

"He is not." Aragorn sheathed his sword. "Why are you out here alone?"

Boromir made no immediate answer, instead appraising Aragorn and, not for the first time, finding him enticing. The qualities that vexed were many, that was undeniable. His ceaseless suspicion grated, his upstart's assurance was like gall – and yet, there were moments, both in stillness and in the warrior's camaraderie, that drew Boromir close, longing in his secret heart. And his face and body tempted; the hard muscles beneath skin that glowed palely as they bathed in river and brook, the planes of his face, the mouth that loosed poetry and war in equal measure. Yes; he tempted.

"Boromir?"

Could Boromir simply take him, if he wished? The Ring would give him strength, if he but concentrated a little. He could take his pleasure and subjugate this man, this never-would-be king. And yet he did _not_ wish it. He yearned to meet Aragorn as equals on this field. Later…perhaps later…there would be time for subjugation, on Boromir's terms. He had yet to think on them. There was much to think on. 

But for now, he yearned, and felt the sharp desire in his loins, and as he stepped closer to Aragorn, he saw with distant triumph that a strange new light shone in Aragorn's eyes, and he rejoiced. Drawing off one heavy glove, he reached out and grasped Aragorn's wrist and drew him, unprotesting, close. With his gloved hand he caressed Aragorn's hair, then grasped a handful of that hair and pressed him closer still, kissing him.

A heaviness seemed to suffuse Aragorn's limbs. He groaned without words and allowed himself to be borne to the ground, where Boromir untied laces and pulled at surcoat and breeches and smallclothes until he had disordered Aragorn's garments thoroughly, his naked skin aromatic and gleaming in the watery light. And how the Ring sang in Boromir's heart as he bent near and closed his lips over Aragorn's flesh, suckling and kissing. This, too, was conquest, a sweet conquest too long denied.

Aragorn gasped; his head moved from side to side. At last he cried out and spilled into Boromir's mouth, and lay still and silent as Boromir attended him, laving intimately, stroking his belly and thighs. His hand idly toyed with a lock of Boromir's hair.

Boromir sat up and regarded Aragorn, his thoughts racing with exquisite contemplation. He still ached with need, but he would draw that pain out, the better to have it sweetened later. Aragorn on his knees before him, worshipping…what a sight that would be.

"Well done, son of Gondor," Aragorn murmured. "Well done indeed."

"If it pleased you, I am glad," Boromir answered modestly, his hand reaching up to clasp at the Ring comfortably hidden beneath his clothes.

"It would please me more if you told me what you did with the Hobbit's body."

Icy tendrils clasped Boromir's spine. He pulled away, poised to spring. "What do you mean?"

"Boromir." Aragorn's voice was laced with a peculiar admixture of scorn and pity. "Did you think you could hide your misdeed for long?" He sat up slowly and, reaching out, stroked Boromir's hair. His hand slipped down, and one finger caught itself beneath the fine chain holding the Ring and drew it out.

"No –" The ice enclosed his body. Boromir watched Aragorn, unable to move, no longer able to cry out. His mind clamoured, though: denials, negations, a thousand protests at this –

"Enchantment? Trickery?" Aragorn smiled and drew the chain over Boromir's head, then slipped it over his own, letting it fall with a soft shimmering sound. "The Ring helps, Boromir, but it is not all. No, not all. What lies beneath and within is all. That voice – surely you've heard it calling you." He moved closer to Boromir with serpentine ease.

"I did," Boromir whispered in terror. "I answered." What was this? How, in the name of all the Valar? There had been no sign, no portent. The wizard had not suspected.

"Old fool," Aragorn crooned softly. "He understood only what he wished to understand, Boromir. He suspected you. Everyone suspects you, for you could not hide your longing. How easy it was to conceal the truth. That voice did indeed call you, and calls you still. But I answered first."

"No," Boromir rasped, bereft at his loss. The Ring's absence was a frozen abyss. He plummeted down. "No."

"But you've done well, as I said, and for that there shall be a great reward." Aragorn plucked at the fastenings of Boromir's clothes, slowly but determinedly stripping him naked. "The Ring shall go to Gondor as you wished. And together we shall rule, and woe to those who would oppose us. We shall crush Saruman. We shall conquer the Elves and what remains of the Dwarven kingdoms." His fingers drew apart Boromir's shirt, then pinched, eliciting a gasp. He leant forward and whispered in Boromir's ear. "In time we shall lay waste to Mordor itself, and middle-Earth will be ours. What say you?"

Aragorn's hands made free with Boromir's body; torn between pleasure and confusion, Boromir could not answer. From deeper within the woods came hoarse cries and the sudden harsh clashing of steel. "What," Boromir managed. "What is it?"

"You have done me a service. The Orcs are doing another. It is not our concern." 

Boromir heard Gimli bellowing, calling his name. Aragorn's name. The loss of the ring burned. How it burned, even as Aragorn's hand, infinitely skillful, brought him to the brink of ecstasy. Steel against steel rang in his ears. He heard the sharp, plaintive cries of the other Halflings.

"What say you, son of Gondor?"

The Ring swung from the constriction of Aragorn's shirt and touched Boromir's lips. Aragorn brushed it away, pressing it against Boromir's throat with his hand as he leant to capture Boromir's lips with his own. It seared his flesh, painful, beautiful, irreplaceable. He could not be without it. One way, or the other, he would have it. 

Only one hand at a time could wear it, though. Only one.

"Yes. Yes."

The Ring burned between them, singing, beckoning. Boromir cried out in spiraling pleasure and the drowning that comes with the surrender to faithlessness and utter deceit, his cries mingling with the death screams from the banks of the Anduin wood.

 

End.


End file.
